Diary of a Lovestruck Pathologist
by Almarinda
Summary: This arose from thinking about things from Molly's POV. Some journal-like entries from Molly as she thinks about her detective. They are set at different time periods surrounding season 3. I'm not sure if I'll add more or not. They start pretty close to the TV storyline and veer more into what-if by the end. I fixed the crazy formatting glitch that happened to the 1st 2 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

*I don't own these characters or the stories they belong to*

_A few days before the Fall_

Today was just another typical day in the lab: Sherlock was in one of his manic, ecstatic frenzies with a case on the boil, and I struggled to overcome his disregard, making the best of it until he stung me with some awful thing he said. When that blow comes, I usually flee the scene. I fight back tears, I berate myself and sometimes him, and I ruminate over the pull he has on me. Today was no different. Why can't I let it go? Is it really worth it? Why do I keep coming back like a desperate puppy, sick with misplaced hope for a small crumb of what? Acknowledgment? Affection? What is it about him that keeps me coming back for more? And right here is where I stop kicking myself. Thinking about Sherlock leads inevitably to: "How do I love thee? Oh, let me count the ways," and it's really hard to hold onto ire and self-castigation once whimsy and longing overcome the soul.

There is much that draws me to Sherlock, but the first thing that stands out to anyone who meets him is his mind. It is beautiful and wonderful, astounding and unique. I could go on all day about the beauty of his genius, recounting numerous examples to awe and enamor, but it's more than his genius that makes him unique. There have been many geniuses in the world, but none like Sherlock, I think. No one else I know or have heard about has such a disregard for what is normal and expected. With Sherlock, there is an odd juxtaposition. He has made such a study of people and their normal reactions that he knows what to expect of them better than they know of themselves, but Sherlock himself makes no effort to conform to normal more than it pleases him to do so. In some cases, he seems oddly clueless, not even recognizing when he has stepped outside those bounds, but I think it more frequently the case that he doesn't care what other people think of him, and normal behavior in others is often classified as "boring." Most people, geniuses included, live their lives regulated, to at least some extent, by the concern of what other people think about them. Even those of us who find ourselves other-than-normal and awkward-around-anyone-who-is-not-a corpse don't share his lack of effort or his disregard for other people. Sherlock has a complete lack of concern for what people think and expect of him. He lives free from the shackles of social norms and niceties. I often think it would be wonderful to be so free!

Of course, the problem is that his freedom it is not paired overtly with a love for the other person; it employs no discernible empathy. John has had a very positive humanizing effect on him, but it still makes me sad to think what Sherlock has been deprived of or what he has deprived himself of that he is so unable to accept or give love to other people. I wonder how much of that is down to his experiences, how much down to his genius, which is such a demanding and harsh task-master, and how much is down to himself, his choices. Thankfully, Sherlock possesses a strong sense of morals and he adheres to them-mostly. Otherwise, his utter disregard for people's feelings and opinions would be a very bad thing, indeed. As it is, his beauty, genius, and uniqueness come part and parcel with a heavy dose of astounding rudeness, and this is what had me stinging, yet again. Still, I think it says something good of him that he chooses to direct his puzzle-solving efforts so often towards saving the day. He would have you think that the game is all that matters to him, but he could employ his genius in horrific ways if he chose to. The thought makes it a little easier to forgive his rudeness.

I had walked away, fighting off tears, but like a moth to a flame I returned to him as I always do. It is more than the beauty of his genius and freedom that compel me. While his understanding of and interaction with human nature is almost all attributable to the depth of his observational and deductive skills, he is not a robot. Occasionally my patience and persistence are rewarded with a glimpse of a humanity within him that is affected by life. He has a sense of humor, which is lovely. But today, I have this feeling like something is wrong, that something horrible is about to happen. His features often fell into sadness today when he knew John wasn't looking, which is worrying. I tried to let him know that I'd be there for him, that I'd be his support for whatever comes, but it was here that his disregard became forcefully rude. I wish he would accept help or comfort from me, or occasionally offer such in return. John has said that I am the only person he has ever heard Sherlock apologize to, and lately, it does seem to register when he has wounded me; his face doesn't remain completely placid like it used to when my composure gives way. This keeps me hanging on with a thin thread of hope.

Over time that I've known Sherlock, the sadness that overtakes my contentment on occasion is both better and worse. I am getting tougher against it, inured from long exposure to Sherlock's abrupt ways, but its reach is growing longer as I fall in deeper, which I do the more I know him. I feel lost, perhaps irrevocably to chance of rescue, bound eternally as the moon is, locked with its face to the Earth-whether the Earth notes the moon or not. Even if it never avails me anything, I care about him, and that keeps me hanging on too. I only wish I could rid myself of this sense of dread.


	2. Chapter 2

_*_I don't own the characters or the stories they belong to*

_A few days after the death of Magnussen_

I heard the horrible news from John. Sherlock shot a man in the head, murdered an unarmed and publicly-important man in full view of a tactical team. The man was not a nice man from the sound of it. According to John, the man needed killing, and when it became clear that nothing else but the man's death would protect his friends and family, Sherlock sacrificed himself to the inevitable consequences and acted as the instrument of death.

I don't know anymore about the circumstances, either about the transgressions of the man, or who or what Sherlock acted to protect, but I know Sherlock. I know he would not have taken such a course of action were it not absolutely necessary. I know he would have calculated and analyzed everything and not acted from loss of control; He would have known exactly what he was doing and why and what the consequences were. And while it appears to many that Sherlock doesn't have a heart-I know that he does. He compartmentalizes a lot, tries to keep his analytical mind clear by divorcing himself from sentiment, but he has a good heart underneath it all and he does feel, and deeply.  
>You only have to watch him with the few people who are close to him to realize that. We in that small circle have fared no different from everyone else who has come into contact with Sherlock Holmes in that we have been treated regularly to his unwanted, rude deductions. Indeed, because of our caring we have suffered more from his keep-everyone-at-a-distance tactics, but Sherlock has done extraordinary and heart-telling things for us all.<p>

The game was afoot when he allowed his name and reputation to be trashed, but when he fooled everyone into thinking he was dead and undertook that extraordinarily dangerous and lonely two-year solo mission to dismantle Moriarty's network, he did it primarily to protect Mrs. Hudson, John and Lestrade. Even after John thrashed him on his return, Sherlock rushed to save him from a bonfire, reaching into roaring flames to pull his friend to safety. Most telling of all is the self-sacrifice, effort and discomfort Sherlock put himself through on the occasion of John and Mary's wedding, for this had no element of the game in it. Even with me he has made apparent efforts of kindness.

Sherlock is far from perfect, but underneath the beautifully gifted brain he does have a heart, and it is lovely. And this is what has me so concerned. No one with the smallest ounce of heart can kill another person without damage to their soul. Calculated as the act must have been, I wonder how he is dealing with the damage that he did to himself when he looked the man in the eyes and shot him in the head. The fact that Sherlock tries so hard to compartmentalize and not care is particularly bad in this case. I'm sure that he has rationalized that it was necessary and will attempt to either file it in a neat category or try to delete it from his mind palace. I'm equally sure that it won't work. Even soldiers who practice sanctioned killing and become somewhat inured to it have to work through it-have to learn ways to deal with it. And this is what Sherlock will not do: talk about it, work through it, ask anyone for help to deal with it. I'm worried. I'm afraid. How bad is the damage already? How much worse will it eat at him before he either breaks or something worse comes from it? What will the legal consequences be and how will those ramifications compound the problem?


	3. Chapter 3

*I don't own these characters or the stories they belong to*

_A few months after the death of Magnussen_

It turns out my worries were not unfounded. We nearly lost Sherlock to some one-way east-European mission before the broadcast of Moriarty's face to all London brought him back to us. Yet underneath the distraction brought by all the ensuing craziness having to do with that, I sensed in Sherlock a deterioration. I can see in John and Mary's eyes that they have sensed it and worried over it also. He never ceased performing admirably and amazingly on all of his cases, but as time went on there was an underlying worn-thin, irascible, and fragile-bordering-more-and-more-on-unhinged quality to Sherlock that worsened and progressed apace. John and I tried as much as possible to keep him in company, knowing that loneliness worsened his sociopathic tendencies. While Sherlock initially accepted our company, he steadfastly rejected all efforts to broach the topic of his deterioration, and even John wasn't able to make any headway with him. Eventually he began to withdraw, even from us. I wondered how long it could go on until it finally came to a head earlier this week. Sherlock had gotten so out of hand that Lastrade had to send him home and take him off a case. After that, Sherlock disappeared for nearly a week.

He finally resurfaced, showing up on my doorstep Friday, four nights ago. This he had not done since just after the Fall; not with Tom there, and not since he'd left. When I opened the door Sherlock seemed somehow dazed and frantic at the same time, and he looked utterly exhausted. He didn't respond at first to any of my queries and I eventually just took hold of his hand and led him into the flat, closing the door behind him. He finally looked at me and said, "Molly I...I can't delete it, I've tried. I keep seeing...I can't sleep...can I..stay?" I didn't have to ask what he meant; and even though my heart was breaking for him, I was so relieved that he'd finally brought it up, that he'd finally asked for any kind of help.

"Of course," I said. And because he seemed somewhat lost and amenable to guiding in that moment, I chanced it. I stepped closer to him, looked up into his eyes, reached up to brush a dark lock from his forehead and cupped his cheek in my hand. "Of course you can't delete it Sherlock...and of course you can stay." He didn't say anything but surprised me completely when he put his arms around me and pulled me in close for a hug, lying his cheek down on my hair. I laid my head against his chest and returned his embrace, telegraphing all the love, acceptance and comfort that I could. I don't know how long he would have stood there with me like that, but I eventually pulled back a little, and leaving an arm around his waist I said, "come on," and began leading him down the hall. When we reached my room I took his coat and hung it in its customary spot. "Why don't you have a shower and get comfortable while I fix us some dinner? All your things are still where they were the last time you were here." I was mildly worried that he'd just close himself up in my room like he sometimes did, but he looked at me and nodded his assent.

I knew I'd have plenty of time to fix dinner while he was in the shower, so I took the time to fix things he seemed to have enjoyed his last stay here. Just as I was dishing everything up, Sherlock emerged in his pajamas and dressing gown and sat down to a plate. I sat across from him, picked up a fork and said "Bon appétit," smiling. "Thank you, Molly," he said raspily. We ate in silence, which was not unusual save that his silence this time was more of a subdued / lost kind and less of a preoccupied / withdrawn kind. When we finished, he said, "Thanks again, Molly. Why don't you take your turn at the shower and I'll clean everything up?" "Ok," I replied with a smile, before heading to take a shower.

I showered as quickly as I could, afraid to leave him for long in the state that he was in. I did take the time to send a text to John, who had also been fretting over our detective this week, to let him know Sherlock was *found* and safe at my flat. John queried back near immediately to check on Sherlock's state and to see if he needed to come. I replied with circumspect truth regarding Sherlock's state, and told him to stay put-all was ok and I would text again if anything was needed. I added a follow-up that I was going to attempt to get Sherlock to rest and sleep over the weekend, could he please alert Lestrade to keep the calls at bay for the time being? When John texted back "ok" and "yes" I headed back to my charge.

Sherlock had finished clean-up and was sitting on the couch when I returned. This was the time of evening we had sometimes, when Sherlock was in a tolerating-company-kind-of-mood, sat in the living room and watch telly. But that night, I wanted to capitalize on Sherlock's open-ness and let him talk, so I opted to turn on some quiet background music before coming to sit beside him. He looked so exhausted, sitting there. "Come here, Sherlock," I said, putting a couch pillow in my lap and my arm around his shoulder to pull his head down towards the pillow, "lay down a bit; you look so tired." He adjusted to lying down, curled up on his side with his head pillowed on my lap. I tossed the blanket on the couch over him and placed my hands on his head, lightly touching his forehead and curls, saying, "Tell me about that day, Sherlock. I never heard but the barest details about what happened."

I wasn't sure if he would answer at first, but after a little while he began telling me first about the repulsive, stomach-turning man. I was repulsed by what I learned of the man, and shocked at the lengths Sherlock had gone to gain access to him. That's why he had gone on the drug binge! And for that he had started a relationship with Janine and proposed to her!? I kept my peace, letting him talk while my mind reeled. I am fully aware that Sherlock manipulates, you may even say uses me on occasion, but I am very glad he has never gone to those lengths to get what he needs from me. Not that he's ever had to try that hard with me-but still! No wonder that poor woman retaliated by spilling to the tabloids! When I first saw all of those on the news-stand, I was certain this Janine woman had lied her face off to the press, but I couldn't fathom why. I had been livid that some woman was having a go at him while he was struggling for life in the hospital. Now, having learned that Sherlock was actually in a relationship with her and they had been (temporarily, thankfully) engaged prior to the sensational news rag exposés, I understand more of the why, but am left a little less certain that all she said was false, a little more worried that she was actually in a position to have a basis for what she said. I really hope that's not the case.

I must have startled, made a noise, or gone still when my mind went into hyper drive over this, because I realized after a bit that Sherlock had paused his narrative. I cleared my throat a bit, saying, "go on." He went on, telling me enough to let me know that it was John and Mary he was trying to protect, though I have no idea what it is that the horrible man could have had of such import over them. He told me how he drugged his family and Mary over Christmas! so that he could take Mycroft's laptop as a bargaining chip, knowing that its possession and use would (finally) incriminate Magnussen. And then he told me about his horrible miscalculation. There was no trade that could be made, no incriminating information to retrieve and secure, because Magnussen stored it all in his mind palace. So long as he was alive, Sherlock's friends and family were in danger, the whole western world was in danger, according to the man's readily admitted selfish and nefarious purposes. There was only one thing that would ensure safety and protection from such a man-his death. Sherlock's voice changed and slowed a bit when he told me how he'd realized all of this, had taken John's gun out of his pocket and had ended Magnussen's life by shooting him in the head.

"Is this what you keep seeing, keep replaying in your mind?" I asked. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and nodded his head yes and said, "It just keeps popping up at random times and my stomach does that thing again, like the bottom dropped out. It's worst when my mind is quiet, I can't...I haven't been able to sleep at all without it plaguing me."

I pondered my words carefully before saying, "It was something that had to be done and I'm thankful that you did it. I'm just sorry that it was you that had to do it. It can't have been an easy thing to do."

"But why, Molly?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "There were reasons, perfectly good...This is just weakness, sentiment, rearing its head. I should be able to file it, delete it, control it; It shouldn't be able to just pop up like it's in control." Here he sat up putting his elbows on his knees and his fingers to his temples with a frustrated look in his eyes.

I knew it was going to be hard to break through his reticence to sentiment, and that I wouldn't be able to pull punches. There were things he needed to hear and not brush off. "Really, Sherlock, you can't expect that you can be a complete robot about everything. I know that ignoring petty social norms allows you to see clearly, but this was nothing like a petty social rule, it was murder. I mean, at the end of the day it doesn't matter how necessary it was or how much it was down to all of the other people that fell, cowards to his blackmail, allowing him to go unchallenged and unchecked, does it? We aren't meant to kill each other. It's a horrible thing, really; it should damage us to do it. I'm not surprised it's not letting you alone, and that you can't just delete it from your mind. As much as I hate this for your sake, I'd be more worried if you could forget it easily. I know you think it's weakness and sentiment, but it's not. It's human-the essential bit too, not the boring normal bit-so don't look like that. It's what separates you from the psychopaths. It's what makes you different from Magnussen."

Sherlock had given a scoffing look when I got to "it's human," like he shouldn't like to be encompassed within the normal frailty of emotional humanity, but his face eased up a bit as I finished. The lost and tired quality soon returned to predominance. He said snidely, "Fine, I'm human," and then with frustration, "It's affecting my work, Molly. That's not...how do I? Is that it then?"

I considered him for a minute. I could see that his intellect had failed him here. He seemed at the end of a rope. If Sherlock acknowledged his awesome-mental-powers-have-failed-me position there might actually be a chance that he would listen, would let me try to help, even if it involved sentiment. A big maybe, but a better chance than any I had ever seen before. "Sherlock, am I right in thinking that you have tried every reasonable, logical thing you could think of before you got to this point?"

He huffed his answer, "Yes. We wouldn't be talking about this otherwise."

I nodded my head. "Will you listen to me then, even if it's not the kind of thing you want to hear, let me try to help, even if it's not how you want to deal with it?"

Sherlock huffed again, "I might as well. I can't hurt anything, even if it is useless."

I smirked at his unsurprising answer. "First of all, you're going to need to try to be patient with yourself. There is no quick fix. You're also going to have to quit thinking of this as a sentimental weakness. You're probably going to loathe dealing with this in a way that's foreign to you, but if you don't, if you keep trying to ignore or bury it, it will get worse, not better. Your list of things that you can't deal with using intellect alone is impressively small, but this is one of them. Acknowledge it and deal with it accordingly."

Sherlock's look had turned stony, but I waited him out. When assent did not appear forthcoming, I reminded him, "It can't hurt, remember?...We may need a code phrase for that. I'm sure I'll have to remind you often enough. 'Carte Blanche' shall we say?"

After a while, he finally grimaced a response, "Carte Blanche, then." This giving in appeared to have taken even more out of him. He looked even more exhausted than he had done before. I needed Sherlock to hear something important before sending him off to rest though.

"Sherlock, I know you're tired, but I want to tell you something. Even if you think you don't want it or need it, I want you to remember it and I hope that it helps even a little." My heart fluttered a bit as I moved to kneel before him, making eye contact. I was going to have to lay myself more than a little bare here. "I admire you so much for what you did. Everyone else acted to save face and caved to Magnussen's blackmail, but you waded in fearlessly, not caring about your reputation and did what the negligence of others required. I know you did not do it lightly, and I consider it a selfless sacrifice on your part. It has taken its toll on you, ignoring your intent that it not."

I paused, shoring up my courage. "Sherlock, do you remember when I was wrecked after your funeral, having to grieve like everyone would expect of me at your death even though you were alive, having to watch John's grief while I guarded a secret that would have relieved it? When there was no one else I could go to and you...you held me for a while?"

Sherlock nodded once, silently, continuing to hold my gaze. I continued my advance into new territory with him. "Sometimes things take a toll on us that logic will not get us round. It is not weakness to need the comfort of others in such cases. The fact that you need it so little is a testament to your strength; utilizing it now does not signify weakness. Please, please remember that and listen to me now."

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands. He looked at me more intently and I continued, looking just as intently into his eyes, "You are admired, you are...you are loved, Sherlock. You are safe with me." I paused to let that sink in and to regain my own control. I dropped my eyes for a moment and lowered my hands to his before continuing. "You can say anything, feel, or not feel anything-no matter how ridiculous you think it is. You can come to me anytime-I am here for you. I won't judge, I will think more of you, not less. It will stay with me and go nowhere else. I'm sure it's the same with John. I'm sure, being a soldier, that he's even had the same struggle at some point. Don't be afraid to accept the love of your friends and gain strength from them, Sherlock."

I'm not sure if it was relief, thanks, or just exhaustion, but Sherlock dropped his forehead to rest on mine and sighed deeply. I wanted to give him one last thing before he slept. "I'm going to give you your own code words, okay? Anytime this rears up on you, come to me and tell me any phrase with "bad day" in it and we'll either try to deal with it then or later in the day. I'll be there for whatever you need. Will you do that?"

With his forehead still on mine, he nodded his head. I was actually amazed that he had conceded so much. "Good," I said, busking a kiss to his cheek. "Come on, let's see if we can help you get some sleep." I led him into my bedroom and went on through to the bathroom to find some medicine to help him sleep. When I found what I was looking for, I returned to him with the pills and a cup of water. "Have you tried sleep meds?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "Didn't work that well; made it harder to think." He sighed, took the pills and swallowed them anyway.

"Okay," I replied. "We'll worry about thinking later. Let's just see if I can help you catch up on sleep this weekend. It seems like the most immediate problem right now."

I lifted the sheets so he could crawl into bed, which he did, settling in facing me. I wished I could carry this for him, but I could not, so I settled for offering what comfort I could, guarding him till he slept. I pulled a chair up to the bedside and settled into it, reaching forward to caress his head lightly in the way that makes you sleepy and it seemed to relax him somewhat. I forced my breathing to deep and even, the kind that is so lulling when it is next to you. Even with that, the medicine, and the fact that he was so exhausted, it seemed like an age before he finally drifted to sleep. I waited for a while after he fell asleep before rising and placing a careful kiss on his forehead. I headed to the couch to get some rest, leaving the bedroom door open to listen for any restlessness within.

I dozed lightly, not wanting to fall too heavily asleep, afraid to miss a cue that Sherlock was waking. I didn't have to wait long. He started stirring and making small noises. I headed back to the bedroom. He wasn't fully awake yet, but he would be if he kept this up. I decided to crawl in next to him to try to comfort him again. I sat behind him first, leaning over, touching his head, trying to soothe him with small words. When that began to settle him a bit, I laid behind him, spooning him close, and he seemed to relax more fully. He rested another little while before he startled us both awake, and this time there were tears on his face. "Molly?" he mumbled. "Shh, Sherlock. I'm here, you're safe, sleep," I soothed him again. This time I settled him in facing me, his face at my neck, with me holding him, rubbing his back and kissing his head as he cried lightly until he drifted off again.

My heart was truly breaking for him, and I was that much angrier at all the cowards who had made such a burden necessary for him to execute and carry. It was obvious the meds had lowered Sherlock's barriers and made his feelings harder to control without making him sleep as much as they should have. I could see why he wouldn't like them much. I hoped he wouldn't push me away in the morning, angry that I'd witnessed what was for him such a monumental loss of control.

His periods of restlessness continued throughout the night, but I was able to soothe him back into sleep after a short while each time. No wonder he was worn to such a thin thread, this was truly exhausting. I think I must have fallen heavily asleep somewhere in the early morning. I woke to find Sherlock absent from the bed. I sat up panicked, "Sherlock?"

He walked back in from the bathroom saying, "Shh, Molly. I'm here, sleep." He crawled back in, and this time it was he who held me against his shoulder. I reveled in it, and I think we both slept peacefully for a while after that.

When I woke, the sun was streaming fully in through the window. Sherlock was asleep, his face looking more peaceful and less anxious in sleep that it had done, but still with the dark circles under his eyes and a drawn look that gave evidence of his exhaustion. I got up as stealthily as I could, trying not to wake him. I couldn't believe how late it was when I saw the clock in the bathroom. I headed to the kitchen to make breakfast-lunch.

Sherlock wandered in halfway through the preparations, an odd, watchful look on his face. I didn't want to let him set a precedent of distance after the closeness of the night, so I smiled warmly at him, walked up close, and put my arms around his waist for a moment before raising my hands to his chest and raising on my toes to kiss his cheek and greet him, "Morning, Sherlock."

He gave me the most endearing smile. His potential to break my heart in half had now roughly doubled from his showing up on my doorstep last night. I was asking him to keep himself open, so I had to do the same, but I had also to not let myself be the cart running fast away, miles ahead of the horse, steadily increasing the distance between the two.

I turned to finish fixing breakfast and asked. "Were you able to rest at all last night?"

"Yes," he answered, "more than I had done in quite some while...thanks to you. Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome," I answered with a grin. "I know you usually go a long time without sleep when you're on a case, but I'm not surprised it wiped you out, not ever being able to catch it up in between. If that was a good night, I'm surprised you lasted this long. Naps are called for today. Food first though."

We filled our plates and sat down to eat. He was still on the quiet side, but we chatted a bit. I expected that he would be restless without a case or an experiment to occupy him. I'd almost never seen the man idle unless you call his extended trips to his extraordinary mind palace idle. Even then, you could only say he was physically idle, not mentally so. I could tell his wheels were turning at least low key for now, but that would never have satisfied previously. He was mildly restless, but it was nothing like I had expected. I took it as evidence of his exhaustion, and of his acceptance that he had to stop and deal with it.

When we finished with breakfast we wandered toward the couch, and I asked, "Music or telly?"

"Music," he replied.

I turned the music on low again, picked up the blanket and plopped the pillows at the head of the couch. "Rest with me on the couch?" I prompted. When he nodded, I suggested, "You first and I'll follow." He laid down on the couch and I followed, tossing the blanket over us both. I snuggled my back up against his chest and he wrapped his arm around me, making us both secure.

"Are you utterly bored with me yet?" I asked.

"Surprisingly not," he rumbled behind me. "Too tired, I expect." I had figured as much, but I didn't answer. We alternately dozed and listened to music. And so the weekend progressed: eating at odd times, sometimes getting takeout, sometimes fixing food, occasional showers, occasional small chats sometimes dozing on the couch, sometimes sleeping in the bed. His sleep never fully lost its fitfulness, but it did slowly improve. Sherlock began to improve from his state of utter exhaustion, and though he was beginning to be more like himself, something had changed in a way. For my part, I had become so accustomed to his continued presence, I didn't know how I was to return to normal life, apart from him, even for a while. I wondered if it was at all the same for him.

We hadn't talked about his struggle overmuch since Friday night, but Sunday was at a close, and even though I'd called in for the next two days off of work, I knew we'd have to address it and start making a transition back to normal soon. We headed to bed sometime Sunday evening; I had lost all sense of time by this point. We had just settled into a him-holding-me snuggle when I decided to bring it up. "Sherlock, has this weekend helped at all?"

"Yes, Molly. More than I thought it would. It's not gone, but you are a surprisingly good balm and sleep aid. You haven't been at all as irritating as I expected."

"I'm glad," I replied. "I asked you to give being open and honest a try, so I'm going to do the same. I hope it doesn't ruin my not-irritating streak when I tell you I've gotten so used to having you near, I don't at all know how I'm going to let you go to return to life as normal. It hurts to think about."

"I know, Molly. I was so bad before I showed up here that I was near incapacitated. It makes no sense, but I have this thought that I'll revert immediately the moment we part company."

I sighed. "I took the next couple of days off, so we have time to ease back into normal life. But this," I hugged him closer, indicating our nearness, "is open to continue whenever you want it. It can be part of a new normal."

He looked at me for a while without answering. After a bit, he raised his hand to brush the hair at my forehead and temple. "That first night, how did you know this would be so effective at soothing me to sleep?" he asked.

My heart had stopped then sped at his touch, the first of that kind that he had reciprocated. I closed my eyes briefly, lifting my head slightly into his touch before I replied. "I didn't know for sure. I just imagined what would soothe me to sleep and, I don't know...offered it. It seemed to help a bit, so I kept doing it."

"The same with lying next to me and holding me in your arms?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I didn't know if you would tolerate it, so I started out in the chair. But when your restlessness continued I knew it would be easier to ease it and to get rest myself if I just offered what helps me, so I risked it-and you didn't push me away, so I kept it up. We've been trading ever since." I smirked. "I'll be the one having difficulty finding sleep now, when you're no longer near."

"I'm not ready to give it up just yet, so don't worry overmuch," he offered. "Just out of curiosity, is there anything else you think might be good for me that I never knew about?"

A burning tingle overtook my heart and body before it gave way to a nervous flutter. Did I dare? I studied Sherlock; he continued to look at me with amused tolerance as he held me, and this gave me strength to offer one more thing. I prayed with every ounce of me that I was not about to ruin everything that was now so perfect as I placed my hand on his cheek, my thumb grazing his lips, to which I dropped my gaze, as I began drawing close to him. It must not have been what he was expecting because he stopped breathing, his smile faltered and he stiffened somewhat. I could almost read, "oh that" on his face for a second, but I was too close to draw back now. I kept my eyes open as I placed a light kiss on his lips, lifting his top lip slightly as I inhaled sharply and drew away.

"Molly," he started. It almost sounded like a remonstration, gentle though it was, so I cut him off, fighting to keep a calm smile on my face. His countenance began to morph from the automatic Sherlock stand-off face to something more considering and confused looking.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's fine if that's not on the list of things that helps you. It's there if you think it might be, if you want it, but I was never sure if it would be; that's why I never tried it before. I'd much rather you stop me if it's not something you want than let me because you think I might when you don't. Okay?" He raised up, hovering over me; I continued looking up at him as I waited for an answer.

"Okay," he said. His hand dropped down to cup my cheek and he brushed his thumb against my lips, his gaze following. Now it was my turn to look confused and surprised. He raised his eyes to mine and rumbled, "Can I?" After a moment, I nodded my assent and held my breath. My heart stuttered as his lips descended to mine in a repetition of the kiss I had given him. He pulled back slightly and gazed at me in a kind of pondering way, and I was tempted to laugh. It looked like he was considering an experiment. Humor was driven away completely, though as he bent down and kissed me again with focused intent. My body hummed, my breath and pulse speeding to an erratic rate as I let him experiment and began to meet his every exploration with my own.

It was gentle, deep and lovely, until all of the sudden it wasn't. I'm not sure exactly what he did: shifted our alignment, moved his hands to my ribs and hair, pulled me closer... Whatever it was, I caught fire. I came un-tethered from shore and responded with everything in me, one hand roaming on his back, pressing him towards my body as I arched up toward him, one hand tugging lightly on his hair as he kissed me madly. I whimpered, he moaned, and we both heaved madly for breath as we explored and held each other, touching reverently and greedily. I struggled to stay within the restraint of his leading as we were swept away in a maelstrom for a time, devoured by the sensation of each other.

I have no idea where Sherlock, who doesn't do relationships (okay, except the once) developed such a mastery of kissing, but master he is. I was utterly undone. He eventually slowed, pressing his forehead to mine, letting his lips linger barely on mine, his shaking fingers returning to my face as we regained our breath. "I have no idea how you can always classify that as 'boring'," I gasped.

He chuckled breathily. "I've never, not like that. It deserves reassessment." Then he sobered a little. "Molly, I don't know if that's on the list of what's good for me or not. It's.."

"Overwhelming. Confusing. Unsure in the long-term scheme of things?" I finished. He nodded a bit. "Yeah, I know. Me too." I smiled. "Still, I don't think I'd refuse another of your experiments of that kind. I mean, wow, Sherlock!"

He actually blushed for just a moment before amusement and self-satisfaction broke out in a smile. "I think it's safe to say your method of try-on-the-other-person-what-you-would-like is highly effective. After that result, I'm afraid continued experimentation of such kind may actually compound the problem of clouded mental clarity and concentration. Best not to risk it."

I laughed. "Okay. Right you are." I thought about the easing-back-into-normal plan. That Kiss had if anything, plunged us deeper rather than bringing us closer to the surface. I sighed. "Want to venture out to the bakery with me in the morning? Start the easing-back-to-normal plan? Step one: step foot out of the flat into a public place?"

"Sure," he answered. We looked into each other's eyes for a while. I was glad for my part that I was still in his arms and already dreading letting him go. I wondered if that's why he held my gaze as well.

I moved to kiss him on the cheek. "Still okay?" I asked. When he smiled and answered, "yes," I returned his smile and settled down into his arms.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly," he answered and kissed my forehead. I was in so much trouble. How in the world was I going to be strong for him when letting him go was going to break me completely?


End file.
